


chimera

by dashieundomiel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Animal Death, Multi, Slow Burn, all that nasty 19th century stuff, because theyre hunting, ill probably change the summary later, rating and warnings miiight change?, so be aware
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashieundomiel/pseuds/dashieundomiel
Summary: The thing about the horizon, Combeferre knows, is that you never know what lies beyond it.But what else can you do than run towards it?





	chimera

Fall.

Only the slightest hints of it were carried along the early September breeze, especially in Paris, where the wind was more likely to pick up the cries of peddlers or the stench of fishing boats at the docks. Combeferre was glad to escape the narrow falling in-ness of the city and see the horizon without a tangle of buildings obstructing his view.

The trip was courtesy of Courfeyrac, who had some budding republican friends who, he informed Enjolras, would highly benefit from a bit of political evangelism. So Enjolras went.

Combeferre was not originally planning to go, until Enjolras mentioned, offhand, “You’ll go, won’t you?” Combeferre mumbled something about having work to do, but it was not in his nature to refuse anything to Enjolras even then. He brought it up to his employer, M. Devillers, who wholeheartedly supported this, saying he was getting pale from a lack of sun and that he needed a few days without him cluttering up the place. M. Devillers was a perpetually ink spattered old gentleman from Picardy who liked to complain about Southerners, Parisians, Mme. Renou upstairs, the king, the Jacobins, Combeferre, or anything else that happened to be in his way. Combeferre was rather fond of him. So Combeferre went.

The hunting lodge was situated about a day’s travel south of Paris, surrounded by woods stocked full of game, though they ended up doing more drinking and debating than actual hunting. “ _La chasse aux idées_ ,” said Courfeyrac.

The trip was going well, seemingly. Enjolras glowed in his element, and Courfeyrac’s friends seemed a rendition of La Marseillaise away from throwing up barricades in the street. Alone, though, Enjolras seemed strangely subdued. Combeferre caught him in the room they were sharing with his brows furrowed, lost in thought.

He looked up as he entered. “Combeferre.”

Combeferre nodded.

“Come hunting with me?”

Whatever Combeferre expected him to say, it wasn’t that. “I– what? Now?”

“If it’s convenient.” He rose from the chair and left the room without another look at him.

“Yes?” Combeferre said to an empty room.

The rest of the party was playing billiards in the parlor. “Bring back supper,” Courfeyrac called out as they passed.

They set off on horseback with a little brown pointer trotting behind to the deeper part of the woods, where the quail were likely to be, in silence. Combeferre was having trouble enough riding. He felt as though he couldn't quite keep his balance on the shifting muscles of the horse beneath him, and kept sliding uncomfortably. Enjolras sat neatly upright in the saddle with an air of perfect complacency.

"Do you ride often, then?" Combeferre asked awkwardly.

"I used to,“ said Enjolras.

Enjolras said nothing else and Combeferre gave up trying to have a conversation with him. He was surprised Enjolras invited him. It was not that Combeferre didn't like Enjolras- he considered him a friend, really– but he also got the impression that Enjolras did not have friends in the normal sense of the word, and usually preferred to keep his thoughts to himself.

"Here," said Enjolras suddenly, and slid off his horse in a small clearing. The little hunting dog sniffed the air and pointed, and the ground cover rustled. He bounded forwards and the bird flew into the air in a great rush of feathers.

Enjolras shot and missed. "Damn," he said, frowning.

Combeferre dismounted, or rather fell off his horse. "You’re a good shot," he said, dusting himself off, "but your stance is all wrong. You won't get very far against the king’s army shooting like that."

"My stance," repeated Enjolras, turning to look at him.

"Yes. You are terrifically unbalanced."

"Show me, then."

Combeferre stepped behind him and reached around to adjust his grip, then took hold of his hips to fix his center of balance. "Hit that tree," he instructed, pointing to a tree about twenty yards away. Enjolras did, and hit his target.

He tossed his fair hair out of his eyes and turned around. "Where did you learn to shoot?"

"Ah, I've been shooting since I've been five years old. My family wanted me to be a soldier.“ He shrugged. ”But I don’t even like to hunt, in all honesty." He pulled a pistol out of his coat and turned it around in his hands, examining it. "Fascinating devices, aren't they,“ he said, "but rather cruel by nature."

A little further along the trail, the dog froze in a point and they saw the telltale rustling of the underbrush. Combeferre quickly aimed and fired, letting his instincts position his hands and anticipate the kickback. The motion stopped. He waded into the cover and bent down to retrieve a good-sized quail. Enjolras crossed his arms and gazed at him appraisingly.

“I’m going to assume you didn’t invite me for the pleasure of my company," Combeferre said, handing Enjolras the bird.

"Not exactly," said Enjolras, "but I did want to talk to you."

“Why me?” Combeferre was genuinely confused. They had endured a tepid friendship, but thus far Enjolras had never confided to him without Courfeyrac.

“Because you’re not just going to agree with everything I say.”

“Ah.”

Enjolras scrutinized him as if he were deciding whether or not he could trust him. Apparently he decided he could. “I feel frustrated as of late.”

“Why? It’s gone well. I expect they would storm Versailles if you asked them to.”

“That’s exactly the problem. What can I offer them besides my words? What are we doing to bring ‘93 back? Nothing. We do nothing.”

Combeferre tucked his pistol back into his pocket and leaned against a tree. He pictured what it would be. The guillotine, the vast ocean of men crying for liberty, Enjolras at the head of it. He wasn’t sure where he stood in that picture, he realized. He looked at it like a faceless bystander. Blood seeped persistently into the edges of his vision. “You really want to bring back the Revolution.”

He could feel the fierceness of Enjolras’s gaze without looking at him. “You don’t understand,” said Enjolras.

He did, though. Enjolras needed it like a fire needs oxygen. He saw it in the burning intensity behind his eyes, how he left sparks trailing in his wake, and he saw how someday it would burn through him until there was nothing left.

“Some men use opium,” was all he said.

Enjolras continued resolutely. “I’ve tried to talking to other groups. They say I’m too young, that I can’t know what I’m talking about.”

Combeferre said nothing, but Enjolras correctly interpreted his silence. “So you agree with them, then?”

A half shrug of the shoulder. “I just don’t know if you understand the consequences. You know. Prison. Death.”

“Because I’m young?” Enjolras hardened. “The consequences are my concern. I’d rather die now for the Republic than live a hundred meaningless lifetimes.”

“I do not doubt your convictions. Only the path you choose to take.”

Enjolras flicked his gaze across him searchingly. “I sometimes doubt your convictions.” There was no cruelty in his tone. “You’re a strange man.”

Combeferre sighed. “You know I’m as much a republican as you are. Only–”

“Yes, the good must be innocent, I know.” He turned his attention back to his shotgun. “But have you ever questioned whether the good can be innocent?“

“I don’t believe there’s any other choice,” he said quietly.

The dog pricked to attention. Enjolras sent him off into a nearby bush and a couple birds flew out. Enjolras aimed carefully and shot. A bird dropped and hit the ground hard. He went to fetch it, clearly pleased with himself.

He set about binding the brace with a length of twine. “Did you ever want to be a soldier?” Enjolras asked suddenly.

Combeferre took off his glasses and polished them on his coat sleeve, though they were clean. It had seemed like the natural order of things to him at one point, as _soldat_ goes to _soldatoun_ , the suffix - _oun_ typically forming the diminutive in Provençal. Father and son. But when it came to pass– “No.”

“Then what did you want?”

Combeferre loaded powder into the gun, pretending to be thinking. “I had always wanted to be a surgeon,” he admitted. “There’s a great deal of progress to be done in that field, certainly, but the possibilities…”

Enjolras nodded. “I could see you a surgeon.” Then: “It’s not too late.”

Combeferre shook his head and turned away. “I can’t afford medical school on my salary.”

“And surely your parents won’t support you?”

“They would.”

Enjolras gave him a sideways look that said, _then what’s stopping you?_

Combeferre bent down to pet the little pointer, who smiled widely and wagged his stump has hard as he could. “It’s complicated,” he said finally.

Enjolras mounted his horse. “Do you really plan to rot in that clerical job for the rest of your life?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” said Combeferre honestly.

“Maybe you should,” said the _révolutionnairoun_. “Thank you though. For the perspective.”

And with that he spurred his horse forwards into the woods, leaving Combeferre to try to figure out how to get back on the horse.

**Author's Note:**

> so...lets do this thing!


End file.
